


Troubled Waters

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still waters run deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Troubled Waters

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://redheadaholic.livejournal.com/profile)[**redheadaholic**](http://redheadaholic.livejournal.com/) for [](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://help-japan.livejournal.com/)**help_japan**. Hope you enjoy, darling! Thank you so much for bidding on me and donating!
> 
> Originally posted 4-18-11

The water is pitch black around the docks, the ships riding on waves of midnight. He can hear the low-pitched promises of the women who work the pubs and alleyways as they carry on the foul stench of the wind. He knows he should venture back to the house, to the room that Hornblower has so kindly shared with him, but to do so would require saying all the proper phrases and things that war with the truth on his tongue.

To see Maria trying so desperately to please Hornblower, to catch his eye and find approval in it, is unsettling to Bush’s nerves and makes it all the harder not to speak his mind. Hornblower is avowed to do the right thing, and Bush knows that it extends from the same place as his adherence to King and Country at all costs. Hornblower’s currency is in pride and honor, and only a man as poor in those categories as Bush himself would suggest challenging it.

Remaining in the sharply cold evening air on the docks is preferable to the sputtering fire of the Mason’s home and whatever words and recriminations he might utter should Hornblower ask his opinion, or worse, should Bush find himself unable to withhold his words whether requested of him or not.

He has no money, and thus nowhere else to stay, nor entertainment for the night. What little he has that hasn’t gone to his sisters has been spent on outfitting the ship, preparing to her sail. He had hopes that that alone would distract Hornblower from the folly of matrimony, that the expense of their impending voyage would put paid to Mother Mason’s hope that Hornblower was their own golden goose. Instead she had seen that ambition and determination were as likely to turn a profit as skill in a game of whist.

Bush leaves the docks, ignoring drunken men and loose women as they roam the area hoping to lose or make money as the night sinks deeper into the sea. His booted feet carry him past hotels and pubs, quiet buildings waiting until morning to come alive again, and those that thrive in the dark. The men’s club where Hornblower plays cards looms up, expensive and imposing, seeming untouched by the war, by peace. Rich men, he has found, rarely reflect the world as it is. It would be simple enough to ask after Hornblower, to see if he is the fourth at a table. To do so would perhaps lead to an inexpensive meal or drink, an evening of their strange brand of conversation, another reason to stay out far too late, to avoid the acrid scent of hope the Mason’s house now exudes.

“Bush.”

Hornblower’s voice startles him, and he looks to the doors of the club. Hornblower’s coat is worn too thin for the establishment, but a good player can be forgiven his shortcomings so long as he never comes up short. He clears his throat, awkward in Bush’s gaze, and moves down the steps onto the street beside Bush.

“Captain.” Bush nods his head. They are neither in uniform, and the malingering fear of impropriety at his promotion over Bush make any other gesture uneasy. “A good night at cards?”

“All nights at cards are good,” Hornblower allows. “Though some are better than others.” He doesn’t embellish, and it is only the slightly hurried pace that lets Bush know that tonight was a better one, one that will end with a stomach aching from rich food and too much wine.

They settle to eat at a long oak table inside a pub far enough from the Mason’s that there is no chance of talk reaching Maria - or her mother – and prompting questions of cost and coin. Hornblower makes sure they are both settled with a mug and a bowl, the steam of the hot beefy stew rising thickly to their nostrils.

Bush can only swallow a few bites before it is too much on his stomach, the red wine base heady and strong. Hornblower tears a piece of bread with his teeth, completing his transformation from card player and proper company to something closer to the captain Bush knows. There is a step further, another change, where all the guises are dropped, and he is merely Hornblower. That is the man those who think they know him call Horatio, though Bush knows well enough that his surname is the only one to evoke an answer.

The streets outside are crowded and still noisy, the night young enough for revelry. Bush watches young men outside walking alongside friends, next to lovers. There is the lingering ease of peace trying to hold war at bay, though urgency hastens everyone’s steps as though there is the fear of too much to do in the fleeting hours. The couples draw his eye the most, thought it is never with any kind of longing. He swore allegiance to one mistress when he was young, and no woman can compare to all she offers him – from her violent temper to the loving sway of her.

He looks instead to imagine the lives of others, place and unmoving like glass. For him there are the winds and storms, and he knows the same is true of Hornblower, too much for the promised life of hearth and home, of wife and family. Bush forces his attention back to his meal, aware Hornblower is nearly finished.

He takes a few bites, swallowing them down with his ale, the tastes rough against the anxiety in his stomach. Hornblower leans back, resting his hands on his stomach. “You’re out late tonight, Mr. Bush.”

“There are many things to be done,” Bush states, careful to keep his tone flat. Whatever his feelings, he has no right to impede Hornblower’s chosen course. “The ship. The wedding.”

“Your affection for one is markedly clearer than the other.” There’s wry amusement to Hornblower’s voice that speaks of finer wine with cards than with dinner. “Though is any man pleased with another man’s marriage?”

“It is your ship that I’ll sail, sir.”

“Her, you will be in command of from time to time.” Hornblower agrees and then clears his throat as the implications of his words sink in. He does not show his embarrassment in the color of his face, though his eyes widen slightly.

Bush takes another swallow of his ale, though it does little to make the moment less tense. A quick wipe of his mouth on his rough, cloth napkin and he sets it down, searching for a way to diffuse the situation before they begin the trek back to the Mason’s house, before the night is prey to the smells of vinegar and fatty meats, boiled cabbage and the heavy scent of smoke, all laced with the alcohol that fuels Maria’s mother’s tongue.

“Perhaps there is another way.” He has no idea where the words come from, barely recognizes them as his own. Hornblower looks at him, clearly surprised.”

“Pardon?”

A wise man, one with more thought and education could perhaps come up with a diversion, something to turn the attention from ill-spoken words. Bush is no such man. “Than marriage.”

The rest of the world seems to withdraw, and all Bush can see or hear is the slow, steady tap of Hornblower’s two fingers on the table. There’s no rhythm to it, no tune that drives the slow pulse. Bush counts heartbeats.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Bush.”

“Miss Mason is a fine lady…” He can make that much of an assurance. Maria seems to genuinely care for Hornblower in a way that speaks more of her wishes than to the reality of the man, but Bush sees no malicious intent in it. Merely an unsuitability, a lack of future, a lack of aspiration.

“She is.”

He is not a man of words. He cannot say she is wrong without saying he questions Hornblower’s judgment. He knows nothing wise or fancy enough to sugarcoat his dislike and distrust of the situation. “Her mother…”

“I am not to marry Mrs. Mason.”

There is aloofness to Hornblower’s tone, an implication that Bush has gone to far. “To marry…”

“She has proven time and again that her affection for me is genuine. She has done much.” Hornblower clears his throat and levels his gaze at him. “She has secured my proposal, Mr. Bush.”

“You do not love her.” The words seem ridiculous said out loud, as if emotion or the absence thereof had any bearing on Hornblower’s proposal. As if love of anything but strategy and the sea have any place with them. “She is common and will never be otherwise. She has no understanding of the life you lead.”

“Perhaps not.” The aloofness is cold now. Hornblower’s tone is that of the Watch Captain, calm in the face of everything, unfeeling and logical. “However, I have proposed, Mr. Bush. I have proposed and she has accepted, and Maria and I are to be married.”

He’s stepped outside his bounds and spoken out of turn. He knows this, and yet, he cannot help feeling had he not done so, his stomach would have remained in tighter knots. To lose is better than to not fight a battle. “Of course.”

Hornblower rattles the spoon in his empty dish, staring at it as it moves from side to side before raising his eyes to Bush. “And as to my life, there is no need for her to understand it. She need merely know her place in it.” He stands and Bush follows his example, pulling his thin coat tighter as they walk toward the Mason home. “We’ll sail shortly after the wedding. A day. Two at most.”

“Yes, sir,” Bush agrees, not surprised to see his breath in the night air.

“We’ll go back to sea. Her life will change.” Hornblower speaks quietly, but Bush hears him quite clearly. “Mine will go back as it was.”  



End file.
